#test muse: Asra
Text
I told you I was on my canon divergent nonsense again
INTRODUCING: Asra
BASICS
Full Name: Luz Noceda
Alias: ‘ Asra ’
Nicknames: ^^^
Sex / Gender: Nonbinary (They/Them preferred. Is ok with she/her)
Right or Left: Leftie
Age: 17
Height: 5′7
Eye Color: Previously, chesnut brown. One of their eyes is now permanently silver.
Hair Color: Dark brown.
Distinguishing Marks: Has many scars. Most notable of which are across the eyes. Posessed by the Trickster God Eshu in the past, they now bear scars to match the defining marks on his mask.
Paragraph Of Physical Traits: Asra stands at 5′7, and is rather fit from what she was prior. They have been through a lot and have had to get a lot stronger physically as well as in magic. Their hair is often worn swept to the side, and has grown a little longer than canon Luz’s. She does keep it trimmed down though underneath and on the side. They have a permanently silver left eye, and bear the mark of the trickster across their face. They also have many scars on their arms and back from fights.
FAMILY / RELIGION
Parents / Guardians: Camillia Noceda (Status, unknown).
Siblings: N/A
Marital Status: N/A
Significant Other(s): Nyx. Her timeline’s Amity. While dating in title, they don’t see each other as much as they wish to.
Children: N/A
Other Relatives: N/A
Pets: Serphent Palisman named Elio (Sun), had a familiar previously but it perished.
Friends: Nyx, Willow, Gus, Eda, King Hunter (Deceased), Edric, Emira(deceased) . (Previously) Un-named Luz squad. They are looking for new friends and allies right now.
Enemies: Belos (Deceased), Eshu Heyoka, Un-named Luz.
Ethnicity: Afro-Latine, Dominican
Religion: n/a. Has religious trauma, isn’t a fan.
Beliefs: Whatever their morality leads them to believe.
Superstitions: Probably a few, mostly to do with mimics, Eshu, etc. They’re kinda paranoid now.
Languages: Spanish, English, French.
Diction / Accent: They have a calm and reserved way of speaking, but when comfortable can be upbeat and bouncy.
SCHOOL / WORK / HOME
Education: Hexside up to 12th grade---never graduated.
Degree(s): N/A
Occupation: “The Night Traveler”. They currently travel the multiverse, researching what they can, saving who they can, and trying to prevent the great dying, Eshu’s plan to unravel the multiverse.
Own or Rent: They rent, hotel rooms, bed and breakfasts, apartments from time to time. Sometimes in a rut they have taught themselves to build shelters.
Living Space: Wherever they can find.
Work Space: If they’re lucky the place they stay will have a desk.
Main Mode of Transport: Staff, teleportation, walking. Sometimes they will borrow horses, or other transport animals.
PSYCHOLOGY
Fears: Eshu, Losing more people, dark water, severely claustrophobic.
Secrets: They feel like a danger to be around, and feel disgusted that they’ve been branded with the mark of Hoyoka. They don’t like looking at themselves in mirrors because of it and will cover the scars with makeup.
IQ: Very intelligent.
Eating Habits: Ok. They eat what they can get. They learned not to be picky pretty quickly.
Food Preferences: If they had a preference, they really like sweet and sour type food, mostly meats. and pastas.
Sleeping Habits: Extremely poor and erratic. they have night terrors a lot, and sometimes wake up short of breath.
Music Preferences: Calming music. They don’t get to listen to music often. Other types of music they’re okay with too, but again--can’t listen much.
Leader or Follower: Leader.
Planner or Spontaneous: They were spontaneous, and at their core nature maybe they are. But they’ve gotten into the habit of planning, unpredictability frightens them, thanks to Eshu.
Journal: Yes.
Hobbies: Writing, Poetry, Piano. They also really love animals and like to take care of them. Magic is a hobby for them too. they love it.
How Do They Relax: Usually tea, and music. Sometimes they like to star gaze, until it makes them uncomfortable.
What Excites Them: Learning new things, light magic, seeing plants thriving somewhere. Food, new experiences.
What Stresses Them: The dark (ironically), loud wind, percussion sounds, unidentified shadows, Dead silence, the moon.
Pet Peeves: They don’t like being compared to other people, and they don’t like having their mistakes brought up. They harbor a lot of guilt from their past.
Prejudices: They try not to have prejudice, even if they fear something. But they can’t help but feel uncomfortable around mimics. Even if they know its their nature to be the way they are. They hate Eshu with a burning passion.
Attitudes: When comfortable, they can be rather snarky and playful, if you dont’ know them are they are unsure about you they can come off as closed off and aloof.
Obsessions: Finding Eshu and putting the universe back in balance. Not feeling alone.
Addictions: They have a weird penchant for collecting sheet music..and sometimes they’ll keep it to learn it, or sometimes they’ll use it for crafts, pieces in poetry, letters, etc.
Ambitions: To have a somewhat normal life, for their timeline to be put back together.
ASTROLOGY / PHISIOLOGY
Birth Date: December 30th 2004
Sign: Capricorn
Traits Associated with Western Sign: Ambitious, hardworking, entusiastic.
Chinese Zodiac Sign: monkey
Traits Associated with Chinese Sign: Intelligent, lively, active
Handwriting: Very neat, they have really good penmanship.
Sexual History: n/a
General Health: All over the place. They probably get stress/anxiety illness more than anything.
Mental Disabilities: PTSD, Depression, Anxiety, RSD , ADHD the list goes on.
Allergies: Lactose intolerant, but does not seem to care enough to stop.
OBJECTS KEPT IN
Purse / Bag: Important documents they found, their phone, several money pouches with different currencies, pens, a few stress toys, a mp3 that still works, hair product.
Wallet: Not a lot, some money when they need it.
Fridge: n/a
Medicine Cabinet: n/a
Glove Compartment: n/a
Junk Drawer: n/a
Backpack: Clothes, their staff, wallet, Glyphs etc.
Desk: n/a
Clothes Pockets: Sometimes gum or candy, or potions they need. Glyphs.
OTHER
Halloween Costumes: They dont’ really do halloween anymore. They like halloween though.
Talents: Good at Poetry, Calligraphy, and music. Way more versed in Lunar magic than most Luzes. Despite this they still love light magic, and miss being able to do that.
Politics: Fuck belos. Fuck Eshu.
Flaws: Aloof, Stubborn at times, stuck in their own head a lot, Nervous, Paranoid, Shy.
Strengths: Loving, Loyal, very excitable when comfortable, fast learner, affectionate and outgoing when they feel confident enough to do so. Also despite their hesitance, when they are comfy around someone they have a good sense of humor, and will often initiate jokes.
Drugs / Alcohol: n/a.
Passwords: Only has one for their phone, its their anniversary with nyx.
Prized Possessions: A good luck light charm their Amity gave them its supposed to ward off evil spirits and protect.
Time and Place: 1:30 am in the timeline they are in, they are currently lurking amongst a certain chat with other luz’s. Wanting to be involved but not knowing what to say. They can’t sleep, the wind and rain are too loud, the trees are casting funky shadows. They are alone and uncomfortable.
Special Places: The owl house will always be a special place for them, they miss being able to go there for comfort.
Special Memories: Their first date with Nyx, it was ironically a dance for the lunar harvest, and they got to dress super fancy. Asra thinks fondly of how happy they were and how excited she was to be able to start a new life in the Isles. It was only a year and a half ago. wild.
Tagged by: I stole.
Tagging: o - o
7 notes
·
View notes
Text
IX. The Hermit | Shelter from the Storm
Asra x Reader
Enjoy these daydreamy highlights from Asra’s Route! Masterlist
In-Route Prompts & Options Selected
Prompt: “We should go home and rest.”
Options: “We should go to the shop” / “We should go to the palace”
Prompt: He wants to introduce me to his oldest friend
Options: I’m happy / I’m nervous
*Coins*
Prompt: “Don’t tempt me”
Options: “Come lay by the fire” / “Don’t take too long”
Prompt: Asra can’t look away...
Options: “Like what you see?” / “I must look a mess.”
~ 1.3k words
****
As you and Asra approach Vesuvia, you see that there are red storm clouds brewing over the palace minarets. When you start asking questions, Asra hesitates.
“We should go home and rest.”
You wonder, is Asra simply deflecting? Or is he being genuine about the two of you needing all of your rest and wits about you when you come before the Countess? In the end, you decide to take him up on that offer instead of suggesting that you head to the Palace.
The two of you take the path through the forest. Somewhere along the way, Faust appears. You’ve never seen her so chipper as she greets you and Asra. Not long after, the air grows heavier and it begins to rain. Asra says that the two of you can wait out the storm at his friend’s place.
Suspicious, you think. Who lives all the way out here in the middle of the woods? There’s not really time to probe him with questions. The worsening weather forces the two of you to run through the rain, hand in hand, while you leap over roots. Asra calls forth a floating glow-orb to light the way.
Asra, who is grinning and enjoying this more than you or Faust, wheels you out of the way of sudden downpour of water from a canopy of leaves overhead. Close one.
The two of you huddle under a dryer tree to take a break. “We’re almost to my friend’s place,” he says as he glances around, as if he’s getting ready to do something.
“How come I’ve never met this friend?” You tease him.
Another one of those glimpses of sadness flickers across his features before he mumbles, “He’s not much of a people person.”
Before you could press the issue any further, Asra is drawing you in and humming contentedly as he bathes your cheeks and chin in the rainwater clinging to his own. Then he kisses you for real and you kiss him back, guiding his spine against the trunk of the tree that shelters you both from the rain.
You blush at the soft smack of lips when the two of you finally break apart. He gives you an encouraging smile and pulls you out from under the tree. He leads you to a hut made of stone, pulsing in magical wards that Asra takes some time to unlock.
You enter the hut and it’s like night and day. The protective stone walls and the woodsy dryness in the air is a stark contrast against your cold, soaking bodies.
Once again, Asra gives you the chance to test your elemental skills. Your spirits lift at the opportunity to help him get warm instead of the other way around.
While you conjure the flame needed to warm the hearth, Asra explains the spell that his friend is under and the reason why you’ve never heard of him. You process what he tells you and… it’s so sad, is all you can think.
You assure Asra that you’re happy about meeting his old friend. And you are, truly.
This seems to put him at ease. He’s excited about the two of you becoming friends as well. Muriel is his name.
As much effort as you’ve put into getting the fire started, you’re still cold. Before you know it, you’re snuggling up under Asra’s arm. Still it’s not enough. Asra promises to be back with more wood. You decide to shed some of your wet layers in the meantime.
You’ve pulled your shirt over your head when you realize Asra hasn’t left. He’s still at the door, staring at you in a way that makes you forget the two of you were ever roommates. Determined to keep the moment from becoming any more awkward, you stretch out beside the fire, tip your knee towards the ceiling and add a slight arch to your spine.
“Did you leave something behind?” You meant it as a joke, but then Asra leans his back up against the door for support and lets his heavy gaze slowly drift over your body. He shakes his head once.
“Don’t tempt me.”
There is a slight purr behind each word, altering his usually airy voice.
Before you can stop to think about what it could lead to, you beckon him back towards you.
Asra’s purple eyes turn to magenta flame as he comes and lies down beside you. Soon his arms are wrapping around you and his forehead comes to meet yours.
“Oh, you’re so cold” He chides. In a way, it almost sounds like he’s blaming himself. You play it off. It’s not that serious and besides, you don’t really notice the cold. You raise Asra’s spirits again with a little game of footsies. But it doesn’t last long before Asra’s tilting your head back and filling you up with his warmth. He’s determined to warm up every part of your face. Carelessly, his lips move over your blushing skin. Every spot he greets spikes heat at your core. Now he’s onto your neck. You whimper in confusion when he suddenly breaks away.
“Let me get some of these clothes off.”
Asra mutters something else – something about the furs while you’re lying on your back, trying to catch your breath after all of that. How can he manage to busy himself with some household task seconds after bringing all of the heat in your body to the surface? You take a moment to swallow and try not to stare too hard at him while he’s taking off his clothes and hanging them over the fire.
Asra muses, “If we weren’t in my friend’s living room right now, we could…” he lets the thought linger in the air.
You lift an eyebrow. “We could what?”
Asra bites his lip and breaks eye contact. He shakes his head, chuckling, “Nothing. Forget I said anything.” Soon he’s back with a massive, smoky gray bundle of fur.
Whoever this Muriel person is – he better not come through that door. You’re too wrapped up in heaven under these furs with Asra, listening to him recall a time when he used to yearn to be close to you like this. The two of you help yourself to more kisses, the slow and lazy kind. You could stay like this forever…
It seems as though the same is true for Asra. He can’t take his eyes off of you.
“Like what you see?” You ask, hoping he’ll give a little insight into whatever is going on behind those otherworldly irises.
Asra’s answer is immediate. He loves what he sees. He loves everything he sees in you.
But then he takes it back as if he’s said something wrong. You thought he was being sweet and playful, but now that you’re turning his words over in your head, you understand how they could be taken the wrong way.
But… even if you had registered his words that way, did it feel wrong?
As always in these strange moments, Asra finds something else to do. He gets up to leave and tells you not to open the door. Not even for him.
“Especially not for me. I’ll open it myself. If I can’t do that… it isn’t me.”
This gives you goosebumps because... what in the name of the gods was going on in this desperately dark and eerie wood? What could possibly be walking around wearing Asra’s face?
After Asra leaves and you’re still shivering over what he told you, someone enters the hut. It has to be Muriel, who else could it be?
Before you get a chance to explain yourself to this guarded fortress of a man, he takes one look at you and speaks in a way that reminds you of the sigils on his door – meant only to keep everyone out.
“You’re not welcome here.”
#the arcana#asra x reader#asra#asra alnazar#asra the arcana#asra fanfic#asra fic#asra fanfiction#gender neutral reader#gn reader#the arcana fic#the arcana fanfiction#asra route#asra's route#asra x apprentice#my writing#asra x mc#asra’s route#muriel the arcana#muriel#muriel of the kokhuri
88 notes
·
View notes
Text
Day II: Nadia—Tea [and the Pots They're Brewed In]
Featuring Apprentice!Lyra Nguyen, Bảo Nguyen, and Nadia Satrinava.
Coming to the end of a long day, Nadia and Lyra are on their last threads of being productive. Trade deals, listening to the issues the citizens of Vesuvia have brought forth, letters to specific people, and so on had been on the roster since 8 A.M. that morning.
It’s now 4 P.M., and they were in their second-to-last appointment of the day. It was a blessed reprieve, for it was Lyra’s uncle coming to visit.
Portia barely announces Bảo’s arrival to the drawing room when Lyra darts from her spot on the sofa. The two collide jovially, greeting each other warmly in a mix of Leysan and Vesuvian.
Portia expertly sidesteps the ball of happy greetings. Turning to Nadia, Portia asks if she still wished for the platter of food, pot of chrysanthemum tea, and a bottle of Golden Goose to still be brought in.
“Yes, thank you Portia,” Nadia nods. Portia dips her head in acknowledgement and makes haste to the kitchens.
“Happy to see you again!” Bảo nods, taking his seat across from Nadia and Lyra.
“The pleasure is all ours,” Nadia nods. “Did your journey to the palace go well?”
He nods. “The carriage help!”
From there, the three of them spent time catching up. Nadia and Lyra spoke of what they’re planning for the wedding. Much to Bảo’s delight, he’s reminded he’s going to be walking his niece down the aisle to Nadia.
“Does Praetor have to officiate wedding?” Bảo murmurs.
“Yes, as is protocol,” Nadia nods. “While I am looking for his replacement, as of right now he is the only one properly ordained in this matter.”
“I just hope he doesn’t bring his worm,” Lyra grimaces. “I have had enough worms for a lifetime . . .”
They all look up as Portia knocks, entering with a little serving cart. Bảo thanks her with a dip of his head. Whilst giving her a handshake, the man surreptitiously passes the handmaid a bit of money. Portia discreetly pockets it, though they all know Nadia wouldn’t mind the gesture.
“Ohh!” Lyra gasps, seeing the little cakes.
Bảo passes the small plates of little cakes to his niece and future in-law.
Nadia uncorks the Golden Goose, pouring some for herself and Bảo. Lyra happily pours herself and her uncle the chrysanthemum tea.
Bảo suddenly has a vested interest in the pot. “Where did you get this from?” he asks the Countess.
“I believe it was a gift from Asra,” Nadia recounts. “Why the interest?”
“I have hobby collecting teapots,” Bảo explains. “There way to test the quality, at least if handmade.”
"There's a difference in quality of handmade teapots?" Lyra asks. When Bảo nods, she adds, “There’s a lot of them . . . how do you do it?”
“Well, it the sound when the water come out,” Bảo points out. “Fill with teapot, then tip into a bowl of water.”
“Oh?” Nadia muses. “Would you care to demonstrate after we eat?”
“Yes!” Bảo nods, beaming.
They settle into eating more of the spread before them. Bảo comments about how the wedding traditions in Vesuvia have the dresses be white rather than any other color.
“Like going to a funeral,” he shakes his head, chuckling.
“White is for funerals?” Lyra murmurs.
“Mm,” Bảo nods. “I still not use to it . . .”
“I hope it won’t be too uncomfortable for you once the ceremony gets underway,” Nadia replies.
“Oh no no; please don’t worry over me,” Bảo shakes his head. He takes a drink of Golden Goose, eyes widening.
“Is it to your liking?” Nadia inquires.
“Different!” he nods, taking a minute to sniff the spirit.
Lyra laughs softly. Before she can comment on it, Portia steps in.
“Milady, your next appointment is arriving soon,” Portia announces.
“Oh already?” Bảo pouts.
Nadia’s laugh soon rings through the air. This surprises Portia and Bảo, while for Lyra—
“What’s so funny?” she asks, bewildered.
“Oh, oh pardon me,” Nadia clears her throat, tapping her chest with her fingertips. “Your, your uncle’s pout resembles yours, my love. It’s adorable.”
Lyra blushes furiously, which prompts everyone in the room to laugh. Soon after, Nadia sees Bảo out the drawing room’s door with Lyra and Portia.
“We’ll see you later!” Lyra hugs Bảo. She can’t help but smile as he returns the hug, lifting Lyra off the ground a moment before setting her down again.
“Indeed. Don’t be a stranger!” Nadia bids farewell.
Bảo dips his head in turn. As Portia walks him out of the palace halls, he spies the decorations. They’re all for the wedding . . . at the end of the month.
To say the least, Bảo knew that their love would be everlasting. How did he know?
Call it an uncle’s intuition.
#31DaysofArcana#The Arcana#fan apprentice#Nadia Satrinava#nadia x apprentice#Portia Devorak#Uncle Bảo#the scribe writes#magicianapprenticelyra#TOR: Emerald
36 notes
·
View notes
Text
Obedience: Part 2
Lucio x Reader. Gender Neutral. 🍋🍋
Valerius has left you in the washroom to suffer the consequences of your antics. The Count is the first in a long long of people to find you.
This is part 2 in a series where the reader is found in their...compromising position by most of the LIs. The true test of your obedience is if you sit through every visit like an obedient little pet and refuse every offer made by your visitors to help you out of your predicament and let you come.
Featuring: light degradation, light humiliation, creampie aftermath, no penetration, it’s all consensual do not fret
| Part 1 (Valerius) | Part 2 (Lucio) | Part 3 (Nadia) | Part 4 (Julian) | Part 5 (Asra and ???) | Part 6 (???) |
**
You weren’t there for long before the door handle jerked and a familiar face stepped into the room, startled by the sight of you—on your back, knees spread, Valerius’ come dribbling out of your hole as you tried desperately to keep as much of it in as possible.
With your lip between your teeth, you let out a desperate little whine. It’s so hard not to squirm, not to shy away from his gaze, not to cover yourself and your obvious arousal.
Your throat tight, you can only sit there and wait for him to react. If you don’t, Valerius will know. He always does.
“Ah, so this is what my consul was speaking of when he said he had left a gift for me.”
You freeze at Lucio’s words, watching as he kicks the door shut behind himself and saunters over to where you are spread.
In all of his words and movements, he hasn’t looked you in the eye.
He reaches down, and you almost jerk away from his touch, but you’re so sensitive, so desperate for anything, that you let him swipe a finger through the mess of you.
Lucio plays with it between his fingers for a moment, contemplates it. Your eyes slip down to his hips, to where you can see the outline of his cock stretching down the left side of his trousers, straining against the tight fabric.
“What a mess he has made of you,” he muses, voice quiet, cruel. “Of course, what else could be expected when you’ve been throwing yourself at him every chance you get? You’re every bit the little slut he’s been telling me over dinner.”
You quiver at his words. Lucio catches the movement, and he laughs, his sharpened little canines glinting in the soft afternoon light.
“Oh yes, he describes all of your antics. How you look stretched around his cock. The sight of your face covered in his seed.” Lucio tilts his head, eyes raking down your body to settle once more on your hole. “That time you cockwarmed him at the council meeting.”
You can’t help it: a choked sob slips out, betraying your attempt at control and obedience, and it’s only made worse when Lucio tuts at you. Shakes his head at you.
Still doesn’t look at you.
Instead, he turns and moves for the toilet, and as Valerius’ come and evidence of your own arousal continue to stain the once-pristine white fabric beneath you, you listen to the sound of Lucio pissing, flushing, and washing his hands.
He doesn’t even give you a second glance before he leaves.
**
🍑 Requesting | Masterlist | My Ao3
#the arcana#the arcana lucio#the arcana count lucio#count lucio#lucio#lucio morgasson#lemon#writing#nnn
110 notes
·
View notes
Text
Musings For After Everybody is Gone
A asoiaf drabble about the friendship of Aelius Anatole Tyrell, Master of Whisperers, and the Late Queen Astaeria, for @starryskylullaby‘s au.
It has always been awfully lonely, being the Master of Whisperers, but when Anatole accepted the position on Valerius’ recommendation he had still been a little too young and a little too overconfident to fully grasp what the it would do to his personal life. Which is to say: leaving it almost non existent. At the time he left High-Garden for King’s Landing, he envisioned himself as some sort of power in the shadows, playing his own game of chess, each piece built upon bits of information.
He left High-Garden, its jests, its parties, the idle studying and the carelessness and free-spirited airs he used to have to follow his uncle and his cousin, and becoming one of the youngest, if not the youngest, Master of Whisperers in Westeros. Of course there still were parties, jests and idle recreations in King’s Landing, but he was intelligent enough (has always been) to soon realise the true weight of his position.
Because he was young, soon he was tried to be manipulated; because he was young, he was often thrown under the carpet, the elders always thinking they knew more. Because his job was to lead the centre of intelligence for the King (a King who did not listen) no one trusted him enough, and he did not trust anyone besides Valerius. The Hand of the King, cousin of his father, was always very close to him, and if anything, was the person who taught him how to survive, who told him “you will be great and I can teach you how to be great.”
He was only 26, and he showed every single person that behind the beauty of his face and his polite mannerisms lied a decisive strategist with his own agenda. Someone you wanted as an ally, never as an enemy.
What nobody told him was how awfully lonely it would be. He often told himself it was alright, of course it was, he was the snake beneath the flowers, the ears no one noticed, the man of the people who swiftly used the most unassuming of labourers and took care of them in return. But the Master of Whisperers had no friends beyond acquiescences — he had people he preferred,and people he almost trusted. He had no partners beyond occasional lovers, no life in the light, beyond a facade of it.
The sunrise rose of High-Garden lived a life in the shadows, beyond the eyes of that blasted dragon, where he talked to himself, he danced by himself, he took himself to bed when the day was done.
In the shadows was where he found her. Of course he did, she was like the moon, and while the moon casts light, while it can be seen during the day, it is not meant to be appreciated if not during the night, when it’s dark, when everything dies to be born again in the morning.
He still remembers meeting Astaeria and Lucerys for the first time, still remembers haughtily telling Valerius if he could not find two more incompetent Targaryens to work with after the meeting ended. It had been after that first meeting in which both of them blindly gave him the position, no questions asked, no knowledge of the workings of Westeros demanded, nothing but blind faith in Dee’s and the Hand’s words.
“A new Master for a new era of Westeros,” Lucerys had said, and that was it.
The Queen had been... quiet. She was incredibly soft spoken and ridiculously polite, reminding him more of a tranquil pond in the middle of the forest than of a Targaryen. He supposed the ‘fire and blood’ should be somewhere beneath all of it, and part of him wanted to test the limits of her patience, to know what he was truly dealing with.
Yet he had been given one look of warning by those sharp grey eyes, and he had let it go. He’d test her later.
There was no need to test Lucerys, he wasn’t particularly discreet about his nature, his way of being, his... anything — he was aware, he often had to check for information of what rumours were circulating about the King and the Palace, so Valerius dealt with them later. Like his sodding babysitter, he often thought. Still, he didn’t hate the King, not quite. He was amusing to watch, fairly fun in parties, but Anatole had been raised to become a high ranking Statesman and anyone who cared enough knew you cannot lead a Kingdom by bread and circus alone. Things eventually collapse, and didn’t they collapse when Asra raised his armies.
(He spoke to him twice, during awful pre-war negotiations. They would’ve been friends in another life time in one where he had them, he thought)
In the end it wasn’t him the one to test her, but the other way around. He had begun spending a significant amount of time in the gardens — they reminded him of home — and apparently the Queen liked to do the same.
He’s too engulfed in his note-taking to notice her coming. Still, he has a role to play so he pretends to be unfazed when she asks him, in her ever so gentle tone, if she could sit with him.
“If you don’t mind me working, then sure, who am I to deny the Queen?”
“Do you ever not work?”
“I’ll let you into a secret if you can keep it, your Majesty, I’m not working, I’m studying... I do a lot of things with my free time, when I have it, it’s just nobody’s business what I do with it.”
“Yours is a double edged position, someone with less faith in your abilities and alliances would dislike that,” she said, giving him a genuine smile. Hers was only a comment, not a threat.
“I am hardly concerned with it,” he lied. “I mean no offence but your majesty, I do not think you have much room to comment on it now.”
“How so?”
“You gave one of the most ‘double-edged positions’, as you called it, in the small council to a complete stranger.”
“You’re not a complete stranger, you’re Valerius’ nephew, and Dee’s cousin.”
“They could be conspiring against you by putting me in this position. They are not, obviously, but it could be a possibility and sometimes I am monstrously amused by the lack of strategic thinking of the Crown... not that the King is incapable of it, he is very capable of it — it simply may be you are more emotional than I am.”
“Don’t we all have emotions?”
“Not I, or at least, it is not my job to have them.”
“I do not believe you to be emotionless,” she says, placing her hand in his shoulder, standing up to leave. “I believe you to be cunning, dedicated and very concerned with the welfare of the people, and I do hope you don’t prove my faith to be misguided.”
Ten months. Ten months he had been in King’s Landing at the time, and the Queen had swiftly undone him in about seven minutes of conversation. Not by games, not by tricks, not by dishonesty, not by letting him fool himself with incomplete yet truthful information.
In his opinion, in his educated opinion, it was an absolute liability to have such an open-hearted, gentle Queen. That it was an advantage to sway public opinion, and something to weaponise if she became the heart of the Nation, the caring sweetheart of the Kingdom, still her emotional honesty could sink all of them in a snap of someone’s fingers if they were not careful enough.
And yet he had thrown his educated opinion through the window when he heard someone make an ill-savoured remark about her age and inexperience. His tongue could be as honey sweet as it could be sharp, and he did not hesitate to simply say: “Age is no guarantee of efficiency.”
For a short time he allowed himself to fool himself with thinking it was a remark in defence of the Queen on the surface, but a reminder and defence move in terms of his position deep down. Yet it was no use lying to himself, he’d sink, so instead he accepted the Queen interested him; of course she did, and for all his flaws and indiscretions Lucerys did love her, so defending the Queen was strategically placing himself in a favourable position with the King.
Thus, Queen Astaeria Sweetstar of Houses Stark and Targaryen became the biggest enigma in King’s Landing to him. This enigma he wanted to unravel for the sake of the game, not because he was his job. He expected a lot of things, some of those he found, while other conclusions he had drawn had been mistaken. Yet the biggest surprise of all was how she became his closest, most dear friend.
With time he became the Queen’s Master of Whisperers, in a way; when she asked why did he always have audiences with her and Valerius before any small council meetings were scheduled, asking if he did not think the King fit for ruling he simply replied that it was not that he thought less of the King, but more of the Queen. As her confidence and agency on the Kingdom grew, his pride in her swelled.
He gave her pearl pendants for her birthday, and for his, she got him a hand crafted chess set. They sometimes visited the city together, and he allowed himself to simply be around her, commenting on things with little transcendence and basking under the sun. They often played duets and danced together, and she enjoyed playing match maker with him, even if she knew it was futile.
“Oh no, Astaeria, you’re not marrying me off, and I will not be married off unless they hold me against a crossbow... maybe. There has been this girl or the other who had caught my attention, but you know as well as I do they’re not my preference,” he shrugged. “I suppose there was someone, when I still lived in High-Garden, but while unions which cannot produce children, or same gendered unions are not prohibited... you know as well as I do that in our circles they’re always dismissed in favours of those which do.”
She had understood, only replying with: “Still, I so very want you to be happy, my dear Anatole.”
“Are you happy?”
She didn’t reply that time. In common silence, he squeezed her hand in the privacy of his office. They have been friends for a handful of years now, and Anatole fooled himself no longer. When it came to Astaeria, he was in it for good. They’d find their small joys in the shadows, dancing a merry tune and toasting to everything that wasn’t, everything they sacrificed for King and Duty.
That year, for her birthday, he gave her her own bush of sunrise roses, his roses. She gave him a dragon-glass rapier.
But now she’s dead. She’s dead and he’s never worn mourning clothes more willingly. She was the sister he never had, the friend he so desperately needed, the one person he had let, willingly, into his private world, where he didn’t concern himself with State matters but with the physics of light, and the tricks he could do with magic. Where they danced in the gardens, and joked around, poking each other with their elbows, and told each others of their homes.
It’s a miracle he survived the battle, it’s a surprise even for himself. It is not a surprise when he’s pushed to the side so Lucerys can cling to her dead body, as if his heart wasn’t broken as well.
Westeros had always been unkind to friendships and men like himself.
#the arcana#the arcana fanfic#the arcana game#fan apprentice#the arcana fan apprentice#the arcana lucio#esther#anatole and esther#asoiaf au#got au#my writing#asoiaf anatole
10 notes
·
View notes
Text
a bonded pair
Kyoko flipped through the written requests she had received during the day, sorting the notes into two piles: Night and Day. Some spells required a specific level of sunlight, others preferred the cover of darkness to work. When she got to the last one, she had to bite back a curse.
Perform a cleansing ritual on the Lazaret. Payment of 400 Vesuvian coins will be delivered to your premises tomorrow morn. was written in too-perfect handwriting. Her first instinct was to throw the paper into the fire. There were a few citizens that believed the island haunted and needed exorcised, but Kyoko wasn’t one of them. A cleansing ritual would do nothing but waste sage and her nice candles. But 400 coins could replace the damaged roof tiles, and leave enough left over to start on the project she had been yearning to try. Sighing in defeat, Kyoko stood and stretched. It was only sunset. She could reach the island by dark.
A few hours later, Kyoko had to rely on the dim light of the stars and her weak summoned flame to maneuver around the abandoned piers of Lazaret. She’d find the abandoned temple, perform a little spell, then back to her shop. The island had a faint scent of molding flowers and burnt flesh, the combination making Kyoko shudder. She hurried towards the center of the island, pointedly ignoring the feeling of eyes glued to her every move. The temple was hastily built for the plague victims to pray in, vines and overgrowth breaking through the stone walls.
Kyoko set her bag down and started lighting the four candles she brought with her, setting them down at the cardinal points. As she set down the last one, the flame vanished, and a pair of glowing red eyes stared at her from a few feet away. She jerked back in shock, a defensive spell on her lips, but before she could speak a crushing blow landed on the back of her head, and she fell to the ground.
The smell of rot and decay woke Kyoko up. Her eyes refused to focus as her head screamed in pain. She could taste blood on her tongue and down the back of her throat. Every time she moved, pain lit up like fireworks.
But she wasn’t moving herself. She was being dragged.
Whoever knocked her unconscious had a death grip on her ankles, and was steadily pulling her away from the temple where her bag was. Kyoko twisted her legs in a quick snap, breaking the person’s hold on her, and she was scrambling backwards, fear and adrenaline fueling her as she summoned a ball of light to get a look at her assailant.
“What the fuck is that,” Kyoko whispered to herself. It was humanoid, walking on two legs, but the body was hunched over, its arms too long to be proportionate, its hands too large and fingertips that were claws, its colorless eyes too far apart in a face with lips that were too thin and teeth that were rows of jagged spikes. Long, stringy hair fell from its scalp in patches down to the ground, and rotting clothes barely covered its form. Even in the dim light of the waxing moon, the thing’s skin was a sickly mixture of grey and green.
The thing started to circle her, moving in jerky, twitching steps as it hissed at her. Kyoko watched with sick, detatched fascination as the thing’s mouth opened wider, and a tongue that had to be at least five feet long slither out, testing the air like a serpent. That tongue lashed out, faster than a whip, and Kyoko barely had time to dart out of the way. She felt a burning pain where the creature’s tongue had caught her on the shoulder, then a worrying numbness.
“Tell me this is a joke,” Kyoko panted. “You’re venomous?” She rolled her shoulder, trying to get sensation back, but failed.
The creature let out an ear-splitting shriek and charged at Kyoko, that tongue aiming to wrap around her throat. Kyoko tried to spin out of range, but when she felt that burning pain on the back of her calf, she couldn’t help but swear angrily. She released a surge of ice, forming it into a spear-like shaft, and sent it hurling towards the thing’s torso.
Her aim was off; the venom was taking effect quickly. The ice caught the creature in the side of the face, but speared through the dangerous tongue, ripping it in half. The thing threw itself on the ground, howling, and Kyoko raised her arm to attack again.
Before she could get another shot in, a black mass landed in front of her, positioned between her and the thing. Her injured leg couldn’t support her weight evenly anymore, and she staggered, struggling to keep her balance. Whatever this new fighter was, it looked like it was made out of the shadows, and it was shaped like a huge black dog. She dimly recognized the glowing red eyes as it turned to peer back at her, and she saw recent wounds on its muzzle and throat.
Black dots began to color Kyoko’s vision, so she saw only blurs of red and the creature’s greenish skin as the shadow engaged. Low snarls and high-pitched screeches echoed around the Lazaret, and Kyoko knew the battle was over when she heard the wet crunching of bones being split open and torn apart. She collapsed, her legs finally giving out, and she waited for the victor to approach her.
Red eyes regarded her wearily, and the shadow slumped next to her. Kyoko reached out a hand to touch the dog’s side, and she felt the dampness of blood.
“Thank you for saving me,” Kyoko tried to say. It felt like her throat was closing, and it got harder and harder to breathe. The shadow huffed a breath, its head seeking out her hands. “At least I’m not alone,” she mused. She ran her fingers over the soft ears. As her heart did a weird hiccup, like it wasn’t working right, she thought of her shop.
Kyoko’s breath slammed into her as she shot out of bed, a scream lodged in her throat. She stood in the middle of her small bedroom, gasping for air, her body coiled to fight as she tried to get her bearings. She was back at her store, upstairs. She saw her bag, still full of the purification spell ingredients, on the bed next to where she had been sleeping. “A nightmare,” Kyoko gasped. “It was only a nightmare.” She sank back onto the mattress and tried to stop her hands from shaking. After a few breathing exercises to control the panic she had woke up with, she went downstairs to make something that would help calm her.
In the comfort of her kitchen, she started to boil water. Something moved just beyond her field of vision, and she almost dropped the kettle when she spotted the large, dog-shaped shadow that was hiding underneath her table. Kyoko froze as the ruby eyes met hers, and she just stared.
Master?
The thought went through her head, but didn’t come from her. Kyoko eyed the beast with hesitation. “Are you...was that you?”
Master.
Kyoko licked her lips nervously. She offered her hand out to the beast, and it slowly left its position from under the table to approach her, pushing its muzzle into her palm. Its flowing tail wrapped around her in a protective gesture.
“What’s your name?” Kyoko asked.
No name. I’m YOUR familiar. Its eyes closed in contentment as her hands sought out the wounds she had watched it suffer the night before. When she found none, her relief was adamant. A familiar...Asra had Faust, but she doubt that the bonded pair had met the way she met hers. She couldn’t remember much about what happened after her familiar had killed that monster. She got the sense that something else had whispered the spell into her ear, but she couldn’t place what.
“Hmm.” Kyoko peered at him for a few moments, running her hands down his lupine body. “Regis. Your name will be Regis.”
2 notes
·
View notes
Note
reddish brass and new leaf.
Colorful Headcanons | Accepting!
Reddish Brass: How likely is your muse to step up and take the role of a leader? are they willing to take the challenge, or are they more apt to being a follower?
Asra doesn’t mind being a leader if need be. He has a natural urge to search and discover, so he fits well into leadership roles that let him explore new possibilities and solve problems. A lot of the time when he takes the lead he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. When he gets an idea in his head, he’s either certain it will work or too curious to resist seeing if it will. He’ll pitch it to the group and if it’s decided upon, he’ll naturally lead the way.
Of course the one exception is in matters of magic: he knows that he’s incredibly knowledgeable, so in those cases he’ll jump at leadership roles. That said, the people following him in those situations should take care to keep him in check; he’s always eager to test arcane limits and the limits of his own magic, and while he would never purposely lead others into danger, he may end up doing so accidentally.
New Leaf: What message would your muse send to their past self, if any?
Not to let the Apprentice stay behind. He’d tell himself what would happen to them if they stayed so that he could make sure they wouldn’t have to suffer and die of the plague. He’d tell himself to find Julian and explain that Lucio was the source of the plague, that curing it was as simple as getting rid of him. And he’d tell himself what happened to his parents, so he could free them from imprisonment sooner.
1 note
·
View note
Text
The Argument
I'm incapable of writing anything involving Phoebe that isn't angst. I've been thinking of this since book XIII. The argument with Asra (and the aftermath for Phoebe).
I guess warnings for hurt/no comfort, and obviously the plague.
----------------
In her nightmares, Asra turned to her with violet irises eclipsed in blood red sclera. Like so many of the neighbors she'd known since her childhood, he wasted away, wracked with a cough that persisted despite her best efforts to heal it. Despite his own efforts to heal his sickness. The plague would claim him and she would be helpless to stop it.
She didn't like being helpless. She didn't like being helpless and she didn't like waking in the night with the single panic-driven goal of assuring herself of Asra's health. At first it was enough to see him sleeping beside her, breathing calm, regular, devoid of the rattling wheeze that took up residence in the chests of plague victims. But then she had needed to wake him, to see his eyes for herself.
The third such night of that, she had woken to Asra already awake and watching her with concern. "Was I talking in my sleep?" She asked sheepishly.
He shook his head. "Just restless." Asra looked tired.
"I should sleep down in the shop," she said. "At least one of us should get a decent sleep."
Asra put an arm around her waist when she made to get up. "I'll just wake up when you hit that creaky stair to come check on me," he told her fondly. His expression wavered into concern again. "We'd both sleep better out of the city," he began.
It was a familiar debate. The house in Nopal, safe from the plague. A tempting haven for them until the plague in Vesuvia ran its course. "You should go to Nopal, Asra," Phoebe said gently, beginning to unwind his arms from her torso. "Somewhere the plague hasn't touched."
"And you should come with me." He resisted her attempts--halfhearted, if she were honest--to escape his embrace.
"Asra..." She let him pull her to his chest, let herself listen to the steady beat of his heart. And she took a shaky breath. It came out a sigh, wordless as she kissed his breast over his heart. "You know I don't keep secrets from you," she began again. "You know... you know everything. Everything I've done. The blood on my hands."
"Phoebe--" Asra started.
"Asra, I can't sit idly by while people are dying." Her voice was sharper than she meant it to be. "I can't run away. Not this time. I'm going to tell Julian to take me on at his clinic. I'll see if magic and medicine can do something together for this plague."
"And what am I supposed to do?" He sat up abruptly, shaking out of the embrace. "Twiddle my thumbs in Nopal while you're here walking among the dying? Run away and have you think me a coward?" Asra scoffed. It was the angriest she had ever heard him.
"I could never think you were a coward."
"But you'll think it of yourself." She sat up too, but didn't answer his accusation. They both knew he was right. "Be kinder to yourself, Phoebe."
"You know what I've done," she repeated plainly. "Asra, all the blood on my hands... if I don't help these people now..." She would never be able to forgive herself if she left now; the ghosts of the plague-stricken would haunt her for all her days. "If I don't help these people, I'm no better than Lucio. All these years of learning healing will have been for nothing, Asra. Nothing, if I don't do something about the plague now."
"And I'm supposed to just leave you?" They were both nearly shouting. Faust slid from wherever she had been hiding in the blankets to curl around Asra's wrist. Mishal had climbed out of the stove, trailing the scent of ash as he scampered into the crook of Phoebe's neck, perpetually cool against the heat of her frustration.
"You're supposed to be safe," she snapped. "You're supposed to go to the sanctuary where the plague hasn't been and be safe, so I can work without wondering if you're the next patient who will walk in my door."
"And what about my worries? You think I can just sit in Nopal and not worry about you, Phoebe? It's not safe in Vesuvia. Not for you. Not for anyone anymore."
"We are lucky enough to have some haven to run to, Asra. You remember what it's like not to have that." He recoiled as if she had slapped him. Mishal shifted uncomfortably on Phoebe's shoulder while Faust slithered up to Asra's neck to offer comfort. Her clenched jaw and Mishal's movement were the only outward signs Phoebe gave of remorse for her words. Her face was otherwise composed as she looked coolly at Asra.
Hurt twisted his features. Silently, he turned from her and got up to dress. "You don't have to go now, I'm not trying to kick you out Asra," Phoebe tried, and her voice betrayed only a little of the desire to mend the bridges she had damaged.
"I'm used to night travel. I'll be fine." Asra spoke with a cold tone, like something had iced over his normal expressive inflection. "Besides, you'll sleep better when I'm not here."
Phoebe took the harsh words as her deservee punishment. "Send me a message when you get to Nopal?" She asked.
Faust peeked from his scarf as Asra turned to her with a silent look. He turned away without answering, though Faust twisted to face her still. She hoped Faust looking back was a confirmation. Phoebe brought her own hand up to rest on the quivering salamander on her shoulder. Together from the window, Phoebe and her familiar watched Asra exit to the street and disappear into a hazy Vesuvian night.
Jaw set, Phoebe placed Mishal back on the stove and started gathering her clothes. "Stoke the fire, won't you? We'll bring some tea to Ilya and see what we can do to help."
----
It was becoming increasingly apparent that there was little magic or medicine could do to fight the plague. Her fire burned back the disease, but only for a while, and only the external symptoms. The bloodshot eyes and dehydration remained, and the patients she saw always came back more ill than the last time.
Ilya had gone to the palace, summoned by Lucio who, too, had contracted the wasting disease. "I leave my clinic in your very capable hands, my dear," the doctor had said as he left a week ago. "Between your study, and the research I can do with the palace library, we'll have a cure in no time."
Phoebe wished she shared his confidence, though she had humored him with as much bravado as she could muster. Long days and longer nights left her drained, even as the notes Julian sent from his office in the palace piqued her curiosity and sent her excitedly to her own books. She had yet to hear from Asra. She could only assume he had reached Nopal safely. There was no word that the plague had spread beyond the city, so for now, when Phoebe slept at all, she slept assured of his safety from the plague.
She sipped water by candlelight, and poured over notes in her hand and Ilya's. If only he could smuggle her samples of the plague to test herself. So far, her tinctures and spells found and treated only the symptoms. They needed to find the root of it. Phoebe shivered and called up magic to warm her blood. Too many late nights, she mused, and too little answers to be had. When the writing blurred before her eyes, she had to admit defeat. Taking the candle to the little room she'd taken off the side of Julian's clinic, Phoebe paused to look at herself in the mirror. Her medical clothes hung from her frame--too busy to feed herself properly, she'd lost weight--but the candle dropped from unresponsive fingers when she caught sight of her face.
She had been thin before, a gaunt waif on the docks of Galbradine and then a soldier on short rations for a time. She knew what her face looked like when her diet had been poor and when she was exhausted. The bags under her eyes did not surprise her.
The irises staring at her from scarlet sclera did.
Phoebe clapped her hands over her mouth to smother a sob. Knees shaking, she closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. Another look showed her the same sickly reflection; not the bloodshot look of eyestrain, but the surefire design of a plague victim. Phoebe turned back to the lab, calling up a glamour to hide the telltale symptom. Her mind was already working, determining that her magic, her fire, had suppressed the other symptoms thus far. That her thinness and exhaustion had been the combined work of her daily exertions and the sickness that had taken hold of her. Interest leant her energy anew to continue her study. Research, at least, pushed back the conscious thought that she was dying.
----
Phoebe had stopped seeing patients. The quarantine mark she'd drawn on the door of the shop felt like a brand on her skin, though it was only in white chalk and kept in place with magic. It had been a war in her mind, whether to keep seeing them at the clinic or to retreat to the shop to continue research.
The morning she collapsed before breakfast made the decision for her.
She stopped seeing patients because she barely had the energy to see one--herself. Julian had stopped sending his notes to her, presumably too wrapped up in his work. Phoebe didn't want to consider the alternative, so she busied herself with work. Occasionally, when she had the strength, she sent a parcel of notes to Julian in the palace. Quarantined she may be, but Phoebe would be damned if she didn't do what she had set out to.
She still hadn't heard from Asra, though she didn't blame him for his silence. Not after what she said to him. The longer the silence wore on, the more assured Phoebe was that she was going to die alone from the plague. It didn't frighten her like it did the patients who had wept in her arms at the clinic when Julian gave his sorry diagnosis. It felt like an appropriate end. After years fighting others and emerging victorious, she would die to her own failing body, a creature she could not fight.
Time became fuzzy. Phoebe lost track of days, napping intermittently, falling asleep at a book. Her fingers were black with inkstains. Mishal, who snuffed her candles when she fell asleep reading, was the only saving grace she had, the part of her she couldn't push away.
She talked to the salamander like the old friend he was. Asked him favors she wasn't sure he could keep, in her voice that was rapidly disappearing to the cough that woke her violently from sleep. "Stay in the stove for Asra, love. He's hopeless with fire. If you or Muriel aren't there to light it, he'll burn the shop down without me."
Phoebe gave up on the books. It was time to leave the research to the doctors in the palace. Hordes of them, if the rumors were to be believed, working tirelessly for a cure. Julian Devorak among them. But not Phoebe Fontaine.
Instead, she wrote a letter to Asra. It had been three weeks since she'd spoken to him. She couldn't let their argument be the last of her voice he had.
Phoebe pinned it to the door of the shop when she left. Her failing reserves of magic swept through the shop, burning away any trace of the plague. This place would be pure. The plague would not be waiting here when Asra returned. Not in the shop. With the last of her voice and her palm against the door, she whispered the cross-me-not spell, and watched magic swirl through the grain of the wood. Almost an afterthought, Phoebe swept her palm over the quarantine mark on the door, disappearing it without a word.
Then she let herself disappear into the dark street, and made her way to the docks.
#asra#apprentice phoebe#sorry yall im probably incapable of writing for a vague mc#my brain is too character based#Phoebe Fontaine#the arcana#the arcana game fic#hurt/no comfort
27 notes
·
View notes
Text
Part I—The Magician
“The moment man devoured the fruit of knowledge, he sealed his fate…
Entrusting his future to the cards, man clings to a dim hope.
Yet, the Arcana is the means by which all is revealed…
Beyond the beaten path lies the absolute end.
It matters not who you are…
Death awaits you.”
“I’ll miss you.”
His voice is heavy with sincerity. That isn’t anything new. Asra has always meant his words, even when he speaks them in riddles or when he avoids telling me everything—which is all the freaking time. He probably has a hundred secrets hidden in that marvelous mind of his, but he is no liar.
Of that, I am sure of.
The fact that he is leaving again isn’t anything new either. He is a wanderer, a free spirit, and nothing can keep him anywhere for long. Not even me.
There was a time when I hoped perhaps I could change that part of him, that I could inspire him into loving me enough to stay, only to quickly realize that people don’t change. And that I have no right to wish that he would. Asra is family—the only family I’ve ever had—and I love him the way he is. I shall keep on loving him; yes, no matter how many times he hurts me with his absence.
It isn’t hard being alone. My magic is strong enough now that I no longer wish for sight. I can feel the atmosphere around me and it serves as a true, reliable guide. It no longer feels like everything is a threat, dangers that I should watch out for. I can hold my own even if most of the time I’m wishing I didn’t have to.
An owl hoots in the dead of the moonless night. This is the time he usually leaves—he is as much as a night creature as the owl outside—the right time for beginning a journey, never mind the undesirables that could be lurking in the shadows. Asra can hold his own, too, probably better than I think.
“Here…” I feel his hand on mine—his touch feels like clouds caressing my skin. It is such a familiar feeling. I am certain I know every bit of him although I’ve never actually seen him. I know the temperature of his body, the softness of his skin, the smell of his hair, the sound of his voice—so well, in fact, I suspect I could find him in any crowd. He gently pulls my arm forward, opens my palm and places something there. “Take this. For you to play around with while I’m gone.”
Hmmm. A gift. This is definitely not a good sign. If he is giving me something, it means he is trying to appease himself which, in turn, means he feels guilty about something. Is it leaving that gives my young master this heavy feeling? He should know by now that I’ll survive without him.
Say what you want about me, I always do what I must.
Surviving… it is just one of these things.
Whatever I hold in my hands pulsates with magic—and not just any magic—his magic. With a simple brush of my fingers, I know what it is before he tells me.
“My tarot deck.” Yes. In Asra’s little shop of oddities, there is nothing as powerful—and as terrifying perhaps—as this deck of cards. I don’t know who it belonged to before it was given to him—his refusal to disclose that makes up one of the many mysteries I am so fond of—but the deck itself carries a strong, eerie presence that makes my hair stand on end every time I feel the cards nearby.
I quirk an eyebrow. “You think I want your creepy deck?” Annoyance is building in my stomach. He can laugh all he wants. Why should he give them away? And to me? I don’t want the cards any more than he wants to part with them.
“Scared of them, still?” he muses and I can’t help thinking he is pleased by that. “You’re really something. I’ll hide the cards if you wish. But first…” he brushes my cheek with his thumb, “humor me. Read my fortune, Sol. Just for fun.”
There is no such thing as ‘just for fun’ when it came to Asra. He can be kind and distant, smart and obtuse, perceptive and blind, but never fun when he can be serious. The fact that he is using such a unbelievable article to convince me means he is distracted, nervous.
Should I take advantage of that?
He must see something in my face because he adds, “This isn’t a test, Sol. I promise.”
Well, if this isn’t a test, it means that it positively is.
“No? You think I’m ready? For this amount of… of power?”
There is a moment of silence as he considers that. “I can’t tell you that,” he says softly. That is his standard answer when he doesn’t want to tell me something. Usually, I’m not opposed to secrets. Everyone has the right to them. It is just harder to respect it when they are about me. “You’ve made incredible progress, but you still won’t let go of your doubt.”
Doubt. That is a funny word. It carries the weight of the omnipresent feeling that I can’t quite shake. The doubt of having heard right. The doubt of what I can identify by smell. The doubt of ever being alone. The doubt of a hundred different things I can’t be certain of because I can’t see them.
There is never, however, the doubt of feelings.
And that’s what makes this so hard. Because I know of my reasons, and of my doubts, even if he doesn’t. To accept his magical cards—something he has never parted with before—will be to accept that maybe, this time, he isn’t coming back to me. And I can’t stand that thought.
“If that is something you truly need an answer for, how about you ask the cards?” Despite my reservations, I hear him pull the curtain which leads to the backroom. “After you,” he says, his voice farther away.
I sigh and follow him. I don’t need eyes to navigate Asra’s shop anymore, and it isn’t just the energy that emanates from the many objects that guide me. Every nook and cranny is as familiar to me as their owner. I know how many steps I need to get from anywhere to everywhere.
“It’s been a while since we’ve practiced,” Asra is saying as I take a sit across from him. He sounds remorseful which is an unusual mood for him. He’d rather sugar coat his emotions around me whenever he can.
“Because you’re never here?” The words come out of me as if they have a life of their own and my tone makes it sound way more accusatory than I feel. It isn’t in my nature to point fingers. There is just something off about tonight, something I feel he should be telling me because it is coming whether he likes it or not. He can’t protect me from fate any more than I can drink fire.
It takes him a moment to answer and when he does, he sounds more like himself, trying to mask his true feelings. “Maybe. Someday you’ll find a real teacher, Sol…” His fingers are scratching the fabric draped over the table. “But since I have a few minutes to spare, let’s see how powerful you’ve become without me.”
He is always going on about how ‘powerful’ and ‘gifted’ I am, which only reinforces my theory that perhaps Asra is as blind as I am when it comes to certain things. Because if someone as perceptive as he can’t see the blubbering, clumsy mess I am then I’m forever safe from mockery and jests.
I hear a low murmur from Asra and then something brushes along my ankle, smooth and cool. “We’re not alone,” he says, without necessity. Faust’s presence is easily identifiable. Her aura tells me she is pleased to see me. The sentiment is mutual. The snake is my constant (and only) companion when Asra is gone. “If we’re all here, let’s begin.” Asra sounds eager, almost as if he has something to prove.
I close my eyes, focusing my energy, and start shuffling the deck, feeling a little hesitant as the cards slip through my fingers. They are so alive in my hands it makes me dizzy. When I’m done, I pull the first card with my right hand and place it over the table, between us, face up. The little voice in my head whispered its name… the High Priestess.
“What is she telling you?” Asra presses me. I can feel him leaning closer, expectant of something. Why is this so important to him? “Is she speaking to you now?”
When the cards speak to me it isn’t in any human tongue. The words come like a feeling, call it intuition, from somewhere I can hardly identify, deep in my gut. “You’ve forsaken her,” I say. I’m surprised to notice that my voice is no more than a whisper.
“I have?” Asra asks in the same volume.
“Yes.” An image forms in my mind—Asra, in a garden, the smell of pine and wood, and someone there with him, the touch of silk on bare skin, long hair and ringing jewelry. “You’ve pushed her away and buried her voice. She calls out to you, but you won’t listen.” The image turns dark and heavy—a warning. “Master, if you don’t listen to her…”
A sharp knocking startles the three of us. I feel a shiver down my spine. Whoever it is, so late at night, has arrived at the same time as the warning from the cards.
Asra’s breathing turns louder. “I can’t stay any longer,” he says suddenly, standing up. I stand up as well. The warning still weighs in my mind making me anxious. Someone still knocks on the door and Asra is running away like it is the devil.
“Wait—”
I feel his hand on mine again and then his lips as he presses a kiss to it. “You’ll be fine, Sol, dear. You always are.”
For a second, I consider grabbing his hand, throwing him on the ground and pinning him there to stop him from leaving. It is silly, but the cards have scared me. Before I can move, however, the moment is over and Asra is gone from my grasp.
“Ah, I almost forgot,” he says from somewhere to my left. “You wanted the cards hidden, didn’t you?” He moves lightly, footsteps barely making any sound. “There. It’s done. You can always find them if you need ‘em.”
I feel so lonely already.
Asra hesitated, as if he still has something to say, but I know he won’t say it. Pragmatic, he doesn’t much care about feelings—or tries not to. He has to leave, so he will leave.
“Until we meet again,” I hear him say, but it sounds so far away I wonder if I didn’t imagine it. I hear him part the curtains and slip out the back door, which means whoever it’s knocking on the front door, he wants to avoid at all costs.
The only sound left in the room is that of my own breathing and the insistent visitor. I try to calm myself down. It can’t possibly be anyone dangerous or Asra wouldn’t have left me alone to deal with it. Still, a feeling of dread lingers above my head. I wonder if this isn’t a conversation I, too, should wish to avoid.
Yes, well, if Asra can avoid it, so can I. I walk to the front of the shop, a hand stretched before me, until I find the door and lock it. Whoever it is can come back in working hours.
Or not…
The knocking turns into a pounding so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t knock the door down. I back away, slightly, considering what is the right course of action in this situation when a tremulous, feminine voice calls from outside: “I’m not leaving, magician! Open up!”
Something about that voice makes up my mind for me. It sounds so raw and exhausted, bearing on desperation. It isn’t a threat. Someone needs my help.
I unlock the door and pull it open to immediately regret it. Whoever it is advances on me, the noise of silk skirts and jewelry making my mouth drop open. It feels just like the vision I had. The High Priestess. The strong smell of rosemary and lemons take over the room even with the draft that comes from the cold night outside.
“I will not suffer another sleepless night,” a rich, authoritative voice says to me. “You must read the cards for me. It has to be you.”
At the sound of that, my heart leaps to my throat. I know that voice. There has been a public announcement a few days ago, celebrating her awakening from her deep slumbering—the Countess.
Now why would the Countess of Vesuvia want a reading in the middle of the night from a blind apprentice? It makes absolutely no sense.
“I—I think you’ve come to the wrong place,” I stutter.
“Spare your breath, magician,” she says poignantly. “This is the place. I know it. I’ve seen it before.” I freeze in place as the Countess walks around me, circling me like a vulture. “These walls… These wares… And you.” She stops in front of me again. “Though you were no liar in my dream.”
Ouch.
Like a slap in the face. (Trust me, I would know…).
I stumble backwards and would’ve fallen if the Countess didn’t grab me by the wrist. Her touch is hot like fire and it quickly spreads through my skin until it reaches my cheeks. “D—Dream?” I stammer again, trying to escape from the Countess fiery grasp.
“Yes. An unwelcome ability I have come to possess,” the woman answers, finally letting go of me. “My dreams are haunted by visions of a future waiting to unfold. But the future I saw, the one that brought me to you…” her voice falters, “…is one I will not allow to pass. Tell me, magician, will you hear my proposal?”
“Proposal?” I know I must look like a fool, repeating the Countess’ words like a parrot, but I can’t help it. This is a most unexpected conversation.
“Not very talkative, are you?” It sounds like she is enjoying my discomfort. “Nervous, perhaps?” I can’t imagine someone that wouldn’t be nervous in my position. “I am no stranger to the rumors about me,” the Countess says. “That I am a tyrant. That I loathe your type, magician. But know this: I mean you no harm. If you accept my proposal you will be rewarded handsomely.” She pauses for a second to gather her thoughts. “I require very little of you. Be my guest at the palace for a short while. You will be afforded every luxury, of course,” she adds like that would be the argument to convince me. I instantly know she is referring to whatever ‘help’ the visually impaired might need. Not very complimentary. “It is as my dream foretold,” she goes on. “You need only to bring your skill… and the arcana.”
The arcana… where did I hear that before? Fruit of knowledge… fate… to the cards… the Arcana is the means… It sounds like a distant lullaby to my ears, something I should know, but can’t quite remember. How did it go?
“I am at a loss, Countess,” I say, hoping my ignorance might perhaps change the Countess’ mind and she will leave.
I have other reasons, too. The palace is ‘forbidden grounds’. It is home to nobles and mysteries alike, a place filled with vile people and corruption and murder. Asra has made me promise a dozen times to never set foot there.
“The arcana,” the Countess clarifies, and although I do want to know more about that, it isn’t what I referred to. “The cards. You haven’t heard their true name? I was told you read them well, but I wonder if you truly know them.”
The doubt that floods her voice now reminds me of my earlier musings. It is one thing to doubt yourself. To have an entitled stranger do it is unacceptable.
“Show me, magician,” she demands. “I wish to judge with my own two eyes—these rumor talents of yours.”
Just like that, a sweat breaks out on my brow. I am angry. It feels like a duty to prove to this woman what I can do it—what Asra’s apprentice can do. But at the same time, I’d hoped the Countess wouldn’t ask. After all, Asra did hid the cards before he left.
With my chin up, I try to distract her. “And I don’t know if I believe these dreams of yours.”
The Countess is peeved. “Must we do this? I don’t have all night, magician.”
So there is no distracting her. I make a mental note of that. What now? I can’t possibly go around blindly looking for Asra’s deck when I have no idea where—
I feel the weight of something in my trousers’ pocket. Oh, Asra, you sly fox. Of course. He has put a spell on the deck so that it would appear when I require. Very clever. Knowing him, I should’ve anticipated it. I reach into my back pocket and feel the familiar edges greet my fingertips.
“Now, shall we begin?”
Without further ado, the Countess strides past me toward the back room. I’m left with no choice but to follow.
When we are both sitting across from each other, I start to shuffle the cards while the impatient Countess taps her fingernails on the table. I wish she wouldn’t do that. It is awfully distracting.
What if I can’t do a reading? What then? What will the Countess do to me? Will she just leave? I take a deep breath. I need to remain calm. I can do this. Doubting my power is giving power to my doubts.
I pull the top card and am immediately granted a vision. There is a fox running in an open garden. An owl watches the fox from a tree. There is a fountain, the sound of running water. The sun burns brightly. There is something written on the trunk of a tree, but before I could look at it with my inner eye, the image dissipates.
“…The Magician,” I reveal the name of the card to the Countess.
“How very appropriate,” she muses and I feel she is studying my face. I flush. “What does he hold for me?”
My mind is clear. The answer comes to me as easily as having someone whisper it in my ear. “You have a plan.” I feel the Countess stiffen on her sit. “One that’s long in the making. Years upon years. Now you seek to set it in motion.”
Something changes in the Countess’ voice when she asks, “And? Should I move?” She sounds almost as eager as Asra had during his reading.
I feel the weight of her stare. “Yes,” I tell her. “Act now. Everything has fallen into place. You—”
“Say no more.” The sharpness is back. She stands up, pushing the chair back abruptly. “Your fortunes are simple. Much the same as the others I’ve heard. And yet… you are the first to pique my interest.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I’ve been holding. I hear the Countess throw back the curtains, striding purposefully back into the shop proper. By the time I emerge, the Countess has already crossed the threshold into the air of the night.
“May I await you tomorrow, magician?”
She is giving me a choice, I realize. It isn’t much of a choice, but it is polite enough to ease any hostile feelings I’ve been harboring.
I consider what I’m being offered. The palace, the richness, the chance to prove myself as more than Asra’s apprentice. This time I would get to be the magician. The idea is exhilarating. There isn’t much I can do out in the world. But maybe—just maybe—I’d be just enough for this.
“You may,” I breathe.
“You have chosen wisely, magician.” I can hear the small hint of a smile in her voice. “I will alert the guards to expect you tomorrow. Until then… Rest well.” I am already waving goodbye when the Countess says, “And do try not to pout.”
With that she slams the door.
I bit my tongue, crossing my arms over my chest. What an outrageous night. What could the Countess want with me? And why now? How does it fit with the warning I gave Asra?
“How very weird,” I mutter to the empty shop. I am convinced nothing else can happen tonight as to surprise me—
“Strange hours for a shop to keep.”
A gasp tears from my throat. I circle around myself not sure where the sound has come from. “Who said that?” It’s a man’s voice, muffled but still loud in the silence of the night. But it isn’t a voice I recognize, which means I’m going to have to use my other talents to identify the speaker.
“…Behind you.”
I turn. My eyes dart around the shop, chasing shadows they won’t get to see. Focusing on his energy, I feel his height, the smell of leather and coffee and wolfsbane, and the gloomy melancholy of his aura. It feels somewhat familiar.
“You…” the voice hesitates. “You can’t see.”
Very deductive. I fight the urge to roll my eyes.
“Interesting.” There is movement, the squeal of leather, and his voice turns clear as he removes something from his face—a mask perhaps. “No need for this, I suppose. Now, sources say this is the witch’s lair. So who might you be?”
My heart starts beating really fast. How did he get in? What does he want? Who is he? Until I can think of something, I decide to play for time. “W-Wh-Who’s asking?” My words are almost too low to be heard, but they give the stranger pause.
“I’m asking,” he says and he sounds amused. “I’d rather not do it again.”
Am I being charminglythreatened in my own shop?
“But if it’ll make you talk…” he continues, “…Doctor Julian Devorak.”
My heart skips a beat. By the stars. Can it really be? It certainly explains why his aura feels familiar and foreign at the same time. I know him—or rather I know of him.
“Well, I can tell by the look on your face—shock—horror—that you know who I am, don’t you?”
The whole of Vesuvia does. He has once supposedly been a great physician, before he became the most wanted man in town—a murderer, on the run. What can he possibly be doing here tonight? And why?
I try to keep it together. If he was going to kill me, he would’ve done it already. No, he has come for answers and while I keep them from him, I am safe. I just need to play my cards right (no pun intended). I let out a shaky breath and try to sound nonchalant. “Of course. Although you’re exaggerating your own importance. Shock, yes, definitely. But horror? Unless you plan to set me on fire, I’ve none to give.”
There is a moment of silence and then a burst of laughter. “Haven’t heard a good one like that in years,” he mutters. Then he is back on business. “Quick now. Where is the witch?”
“I’ll never talk.” Asra would probably scold me for that one.
“Mm. Where did I hear that one before? Come now, I thought we could keep things civil.”
I’m silent. Intimidation will get him nowhere.
“Well, if you won’t tell me where he is…” He reaches out and grabs my shoulders.
For future reference—never a good idea.
I jump at the touch. In fact, I almost scream. It feels like a lightning bolt down my spine, raising every single hair on my body. The air around me grows colder and I think my legs will give out from under me. It is pure energy pouring out of his fingertips through the thick leather of his gloves, through the fabric of my shirt. I’ve never felt anything like this. And apparently, I am the only one who feels it, because he continues his speech as if nothing has happened. “Won’t you at least tell my fortune?”
Did I drink crazy leaves? What is up with tonight? Did I even get out of bed at all? It seems more unlikely with every passing moment.
“I… uh… What?”
His hands leave my shoulders and my mind clears. “That is what that room in the back is for, isn’t it?” I give him a hesitant nod, unsure of the motives for his odd request. “After you, then.” He must have gestured or something. People are always gesticulating around me, forgetting I can’t see.
So this is it, I guess. This can very likely be the last reading of my life, if I care to do it. Perchance it will get him to leave? The possibility gives me enough hope to make me move my feet.
The doctor drops himself into the reading chair, looming over the table. “Lovely decor. Reminds me of the good old days.”
Hesitantly, I take my sit for what I hope will be the last time tonight. Or ever.
I start to feel a little chilly and I suppose his eyes are to blame. Yes, I can feel his stare and somehow I know it is cold. “Go on,” he urges. “No need to be shy.”
I shuffle the cards a little too aggressively, eager to get this over with and pull the first one. The vision is different this time. Darker. Heavier. Claustrophobic. The stink of blood in the air. Sweat and blood. A man with red hair. And fire. Fire everywh—
He snatches the card from my hand, breaking the vision, so he can have a look at it. My mind is the one racing now. I can’t think of single thing to say. Blood pounds in my ears.
“Death?” His voice is low, incredulous. “Death?” he says again, sneering this time. Then he barks with uncontrollable laughter, sharp as ice. “You’ve got to be joking.”
I jolt as his hands strikes the table.
Devorak rises to his feet. “Death cast her gaze on this wretch and turned away,” he snarls. “She has no interest in an abomination like me.”
Overcome with confusion, I am frozen on my sit listening to the doctor as he paces around the room, murmuring to himself about death, curses and where the bloody hell the witch is.
“He’s gone,” I tell him, surprising the both of us. I honestly just want him to leave by now. If telling him the truth will get him out of there, then that’s what I’m going to do. The doctor stops pacing and is very likely looking at me, waiting for more. “I don’t know where. He didn’t tell me.”
“Is that so?” He is silent for what feels like an eternity. When he next speaks, he sounds calmer. “You’ve been hospitable, so I’ll let you in on a secret. Your witch friend will be back for you. He’s taught you his tricks. You may even say he cares for you. But when he returns…” There is a dramatic pause in which I assume he has put his mask back on because his voice turns muffled again when he completes the thought. “…seek me out. For your own sake. That creature is far more dangerous than you know.”
Creature? He can’t possibly be talking about Asra… can he? There is nothing dangerous about Asra. There has never been. And yet… Sincerity rings in the doctor’s every word, enough to leave the bitter taste of doubt in my mouth.
“Well, then,” he says. “The hour is late, and I’m out of time. Don’t let him fool you, shopkeep.” And with that last warning, he disappears into the night.
#arcana#the arcana game#nix hydra#fanfic#dfcrosas#julian devorak#asra#the magician#nadia satrinava#muriel#mc#portia devorak#ilya devorak#the apprentice#female apprentice#blind apprentice#sol chamak#oc#count lucio#the absolute end
11 notes
·
View notes
Text
My muses appear to have fled for the night but I’m trying to decide whether I want Asra to have his own blog or not. I think I’ll test him out here first. I just--- tarot muse bless
2 notes
·
View notes
Note
hi its nils again to make a little less of a mistake. i have some standardized testing happening soon so can i put my muses on semi-hiatus? this would be sakichi ishida (donten ni warau), enkidu (fate), and asra (the arcana) ples. it is 9/29 and i love u, again
I love you too! All your kids are on semi-hiatus as of now.
━━━《 Mod: Lucky
0 notes
Last Seen Blogs
stelardivision
attraversiamo
anavitca7
Art Needs No Title
another-kpop-roleplay-blog
ʷʰᵃᵗ ᵃ ˡⁱᶠᵉ.
lovebatty
Yumeship
qqueenofhades
do flowers go down to the realm of the dead?